


Small Disasters

by goodworkperky



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Character Death, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 04:35:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7998811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodworkperky/pseuds/goodworkperky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bullet wounds and stitches are common occurrences, occupational hazards. This was always a possibility.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Disasters

Sam sits on the edge of the bed with his back curved like Atlas. Hands are clasped between his knees. Bucky watches him under the guise of sleep, watches the way his lips move without sound, the way fingertips go to brush over the thin, gold cross around his neck. And he waits, as always, for Sam to rise and pad barefoot to the adjoining bathroom. 

Bucky pushes back the sheets and sprawls out on the bed. A mix of emotion rolls his stomach. He reaches over to Sam’s side of the bed and misses the fading warmth of him. The light from the bathroom spills into their bedroom through the crack beneath the door. It falls on the small duffel bag left in the corner at which Bucky cannot help but give a resentful stare as if were mocking him. Eyes narrow and lips press in a thin line. He sits up to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, dressed in only a pair of boxers. And he sits in thought, in silence. He sits much the same way his husband just had. 

Bathroom door opens with a quiet groan, offering only the silhouette of Sam. Bucky reaches across to turn on their bedside lamp. The room is flooded with light. He looks up and forces the corners of his mouth up into a smile. 

“It’s two in the morning,” Sam says quietly. He holds his shirt in hand and moves like he’s distracted, closing the distance between them with a few long strides. Fingers brush the hair back from Bucky’s face. An absentminded smile graces his lips. “You don’t have to get up; I can call you when we land.” 

Bucky wraps his arms around Sam’s waist in a loose embrace. Ear rests against chest. He listens to the breath enter and leave Sam’s lungs, listens to his heartbeat. A small noise of satisfaction escapes him as he rests his forehead against sternum. Blunt fingernails drag down the bare planes of his partner’s back.

“You’re like a cat,” comes a quiet laugh. Fingers rub gently at Bucky’s scalp. They grab a fistful of his hair, but he doesn't not pull. 

Bucky lifts his chin and meets for a slow kiss. He gets a taste of mint-laden breath exchanged for the taste of last night’s burgers and beers. Hands pull Sam closer, begging for more. Every part of him is begging to be touched. And Sam is pushing him back onto the bed, kissing him gently, turning thoughts to radio silence.

“Don’t leave,” Bucky whispers as Sam settles on top of him. Every muscle in his body is aching with a fear that this overwhelming sense of happiness is nothing more than temporary. He ghosts fingertips down Sam’s spine, drags nails back up. “Pass off the mission to Coulson or Hill. Stay in bed with me.” 

Sam groans. “Don’t tempt me.” 

In an instant, Bucky reverses their positions. He ducks down for another kiss. “I’m serious.” Thumb traces the delineation of ribs. “Eight days is too long.” Lips leave a mouthy trail of kisses along collarbone. 

“Maybe if you didn’t damage another helicopter.” Wide hands slip beneath boxers to grab Bucky’s ass. “Did you really expect to hit double digits and not get suspended? How _did_ you manage to get off with just a suspension?” 

A heavy sigh heaves its way up. Bucky presses his mouth to Sam’s neck and sighs louder. He is intoxicated by the champagne laugh spilling from Sam’s lips and cannot help but grin like it is the easiest thing in the world. 

They settle against one another, holding and wanting to be held. Hands run over skin, knead muscle. Bucky nudges Sam’s thighs apart to slip his knee between, adding just a little pressure. Sam runs his hands beneath Bucky shirt to rake nails down his back, causing a tremble to work its way down Bucky’s spine. 

Eyes meet and, for a second, Bucky feels uncertain. “Sam, stay,” he breathes. 

A look of confusion flashes across the airman’s face. “What’s this about?” 

Bucky wants to tell him, wants to say that this rapidly growing feeling of dread is devouring him from the inside. He wants to say the all he wants is to stay in bed with Sam until sunrise and well beyond. He wants to say that he’s sick of the bullets and blood, sick of getting and leaving scars. But he doesn’t. He smiles slightly and shakes his head. “Nothing," he replies. "I'm just going to miss the hell out of you." 

Brow furrows. Sam is trying to decide whether he should press the issue or not. Tongue drags slowly over his lower lip. Bucky’s name lingers on his tongue. 

A warm blush creeps across the soldier’s face. He buries his face in the crook of Sam’s neck. “Come back as soon as you can.” 

Sam runs his hands down Bucky’s sides and stares up at the ceiling. “When I get back we’re going to stay in bed for the entire day,” he says softly. “Maybe we’ll go to the pancake place down the street.” 

“Let’s not get wild.” Bucky press a kiss to the curve of Sam’s jaw. 

And Sam lays content in Bucky’s arm for a few more minutes. Head turns slightly and their noses brush. Brown eyes are half mast, lost in thought. Then Sam smiles like sunshine spilling through clouds. 

“I love you,” comes a whisper like a pin drop in the silence.

* * *

It is almost overwhelmingly bright, sunshine and birds chirping right next to the window. The air is heavy with heat, and Bucky stands in the window of light in thin cotton bottoms and Sam’s worn Air Force shirt. He leans against kitchen counter and folds arms loosely over his chest, wondering how he's supposed to spend all this newfound free time. Bucky breathes deep and everything in him settles in a quiet hum of expectation. 

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway catches Bucky’s attention. He stands a little straighter, confused because it’s only day three into Sam’s mission timeline. Nerves are immediately set alight. Old habits have him go through a checklists of scenarios, exit plans, weapon locations. Car door opens.

Bucky takes a step to the side, unable to see around the dividing wall from his current position. He looks out the small space between curtains to catch a glimpse of the government car parked beside his own. His stomach begins to twist itself into knots. Muscles tremble. He reminds himself to breathe, to stop being pessimistic. 

The doorbell echoes its ring throughout the house. Bucky moves silently, hesitates for a heavy second before he opens the door. Without warning, it feels as though he is hollow. It feels as though someone had spread his ribs and scraped him empty. His mouth is a tomb and words are dying on the tip of his tongue

Steve is standing at his front door, bruised and stitched and in military dress. Left arm is heavily bandaged beneath the carefully pressed uniform and held in a sling, and he keeps the majority of his weight on his right leg. For a second, it doesn’t look like it registers that the door is open. Steve meets Bucky’s eye and blinks as if lost. 

“Please,” Bucky breathes helplessly. The ground is shifting beneath his feet, threatening to swallow him whole. 

Steve opens his mouth. Closes it. Tears are welling in his eyes and it looks like he’s about to be sick. “Sam...Sam died last night.” 

Bucky rocks back on his heels. The breath gets stuck in the back of his throat. His mind is a hurricane, blood roaring in his ears. An earthquake is building in his bones, his chest a mess of a mudslide. He is collapsing in on himself. “Who did it?” Voice sounds like a tape recording, like it doesn’t really belong to him. "Are they alive?"

“They're dead.” Steve reaches across the threshold with his good hand to seize Bucky’s shirt when his knees begin buckle. But he can’t support either one of them. They begin to collapse like abandoned buildings, saved from a hard drop by the prosthetic hand braced against the wall.

“I can--I can’t bre--I can’t breath,” Bucky heaves. His vision is swimming, eyes burning. He turns his face and stifles a sob with his arm. 

Steve toes the door closed, holding Bucky tight with his good arm as he trembles. Seconds tick by into minutes before breath deigns to return to normal. 

Bucky pushes his hair back from his face, wide-eyed and steeped in confusion. “How did...how did this happen?”

Steve swallows hard, voice shakes as he answers, “It was a...barrage--an ambassador’s event before the meetings started. We were in civilian clothes, keeping an eye on the guests. They sent flashbangs first, blew out the back door trying to funnel people out onto the street. There were regular civilians...kids.” Steve wipes tears from his cheek, careful of the jagged line of stitches carving the left half of his face from lip to ear. “I was cleared the perimeter while Sam set up a barricade. There was a girl--couldn’t have been more than eight--she was just limping through the rubble. I didn’t even see her until Sam....He--”

“Stop.” Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and inhales slowly. "I have to call Sarah."

“Natasha just finished giving the news to his sister when I got here,” Steve says. The hand he reaches out with hesitates before making contact. “Bucky?” 

A stuttering exhale. Nostrils flare as Bucky tries not to dissolve. “Where is he?” 

Steve tells him. He uses Bucky as support to guide him to the living room. Both of them stagger as if they don’t have it in them to keep standing. Bucky seats Steve on one end of the couch and leaves with an absently murmured, “I’ll get you a cup of coffee.” 

Bucky shuffles to the kitchen in a haze. Once alone he clamps a hand over his mouth to keep from crying out. Lungs are suffocating with the scream he refuses to release. Vision blurred, he has to grip the counter to steady himself. A feeling of guilt churns in his stomach like battery acid. This is karma, he thinks, or cosmic justice. Because this is a pain Bucky has never felt before. This is a soul shattering pain that makes it seems as if he is coming apart at the seams. This is the epitome of unjust. 

He makes coffee. It’s a goal, it’s something he can do without effort. Bucky is trying desperately not fall apart. Face red, he hands Steve a cup and takes a seat on the other end of the couch. Hands clasp as if in prayer.

“He’ll be buried in New York,” Bucky says in a rasp. “His family is up there and most of his old friends.”

Steve sets his cup down on the coffee table. “Bucky.”

“We talked about it. A lot. When we decided to stay on with SHIELD, we made plans. Especially after Riley, he wanted to be prepared, and he was--we were.” Words get tangled in a sob. He bows his head. Couch cushions dip as Steve moves closer to drape his arm over Bucky’s shoulders. “I wanted to settle down. I was done fighting, Steve. I wanted out. And Sam-” Voice cracks like thin ice. Tongue stutters on a single syllable. Prosthetic hand grabs fistfuls of the worn shirt. He cannot help but feel ruined. “I loved him with everything I had, Steve. Sam died and...it hurts. God it hurts.” 

Steve presses his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder. “You’ll get through this, Bucky,” he says quietly. “You’ll get through it.”


End file.
